


Murphy's Law

by sheepfulsheepyard



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Bruce Tries to Parent, Gen, Humor, Kappa Wayne Is Not On Fire And It's A Goddamn Miracle, Parts Of It Are On Fire, Well - Freeform, batfamily
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-20 16:13:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11924529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheepfulsheepyard/pseuds/sheepfulsheepyard
Summary: Everything that can go wrong, will go wrong. Like a party in July that definitely doesn't have anything to do with Christmas. When it comes to his kids, Bruce really should already know this.





	Murphy's Law

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jerseydevious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jerseydevious/gifts).



> dear jersey: happy birthday, ya big boob.

It had been a good day. 

His coffee had been warm, the board members had been efficient, and R&D had dropped three marketable, workable, _and_ fundable ideas on his desk. His secretary had been cheerful, there had been a box of donuts left on his desk (poison-free, no less), and Alfred had called to say that the food was ready, the house was clean, and the ballroom decorated.

Naturally, Bruce had assumed it would only go up from here.

To someone as versed in the woes of the world such as Bruce, this, he felt, was his first mistake. When had anything gone right for him? World-shattering catastrophes, space-time continuums collapsing, copious amounts of trauma…it all came down to death and destruction looming behind every corner, honestly.  

So when Bruce pulled into the garage, he arrived with a contented sigh. Up until being forced to interact with the Justice League at precisely eight o’clock tonight, he was free. He let out a breath, daydreaming of either a nice nap or perhaps a—

That was when the kitchen door slammed open. Alfred stood in the warm, buttery light of the kitchen that reminded Bruce oddly of the effervescent red glow on Apokolips. As for the fact that the shadows cut strange shapes across his face like Alfred was crying in agony—well, Bruce was just seeing things.

“Master Bruce,” greeted Alfred. The man’s eye twitched, but Bruce blithely decided it was allergies. He _would_ take his nap. “The catering has arrived, the tables have been laid, the decorations set up, and I have taken the liberty of laying out your clothes for tonight in the bathroom.”

“Thanks, Alfred,” said Bruce, valiantly trying to ignore the espresso Alfred was fairly shoving in his face. “I’m just going to take a nap before the party.”

Alfred said something that may have been, “Oh, ho!” or perhaps could be interpreted as “Ha, ha!”

“On an unrelated note,” Alfred plowed ahead, “you may, perhaps, want to check on Master Timothy’s process with the gaming systems for the Teen Titans' entertainment tonight.”

“Oh, really?” asked Bruce, refusing to give into the stink eye at Alfred had pointed at him with surgical, laser-like precision. “Well, Tim’s very capable. I’m sure it’s fine.”

Alfred’s eye _definitely_ twitched as he raised the espresso a little closer to Bruce’s face. “Than perhaps you should go check on Master Damian and the music selections for tonight.”

Bruce met Alfred’s gaze steadily. Well. Somewhere in the vicinity of _steady._ Perhaps not a house-built-on-a-solid-bedrock-foundation-and-reinforced-with-steel-pillars version of _steady_ , but definitely, absolutely, small-cottage-with-a-lovely-thatched-roof-perched-on-a-sand-castle-on-top-of-a-cliff _steady_.

“I’m sure Damian and Stephanie have it all sorted out,” said Bruce, refusing to acknowledge how his gaze had drifted vaguely upward to Alfred’s forehead. “And Dick’s there, too. He’ll make sure it all works out.”

“Funny you mention Master Richard.” Alfred’s voice cracked like a whip across Bruce’s innocent and oh so foolish serenity as the rim of the espresso cup touched Bruce’s lips. “Perhaps, while you are checking on Masters Timothy and Damian you would be so kind as to find him.”

Bruce locked eyes with Alfred, throwing down his metaphorical gauntlet for one last duel.

“I’m sure Dick’s around here somewhere.”

The look Alfred gave him was so scorching that not only did Bruce’s metaphorical gauntlet melt under the heat, but his arm hairs fairly smoked. His skin was scalding with what felt like a bad sunburn, but could actually just be sun exposure; hibernating in a cave for over half his life didn’t really ever endear his skin to anything more than UV supplements and heat lamps. The real sun was, quite frankly, just too damn bright. Just like the world was too cruel, the justice system too corrupt, and his children too untrustworthy to be left alone for even eight hours. 

Bruce grudgingly accepted the espresso.

Alfred nodded in _far_ too much satisfaction and left the way he came.

“I’m getting dressed first!” Bruce shouted at his back. “The kids are fine!”

The muffled sound of Alfred’s snort echoed through the garage, making it reverberate like the snarls of a man-eating crocodile preparing to savor his very pale flesh.

Bruce downed his espresso like a shot and crept back through the house and down to his bedroom. It was, he presumed, safe enough to assume that none of his kids knew he was home yet.

Good. The element of surprise was on his side.

But as Bruce opened the door to his bathroom, he—well. He couldn’t. He jiggled the knob once or twice, before he realized with dawning horror what he was hearing.

Oh God, Bruce thought in horror. Was that Celine Dion or Cannibal Corpses?

“Dick?” he called tentatively through the oaken door. “Is that you in there?”

“No!” shouted back his formerly-missing eldest. 

Bruce considered the possibilities: he’d already found one child, after all, even if that child had locked himself in Bruce's own ensuite bathroom that contained his suit for the night. Should he hope that Dick would let him to dress? Perhaps if he was wearing Armani, his goblin-like horde of ill-bred miscreants would give him a little more mercy before ridiculous scheme or accident of epic proportions they had cooked up would blow up in his face this time…

“Dick, open the door.”

“No.” Of course not.

Well, thought Bruce with half-relief and half-terror as he blinked back flashbacks to Dick’s teenage years where _Carrion Sculpted Entity_ had screamed through the walls of his eighteenth century mansion for hours on end. There was clearly nothing to be done about this. 

Dare he ask what had forced Dick into a strategic retreat of a bubble bath and glass of wine, or retreat himself and hope that his other children somehow had nothing to do with this?

Foolishly, despite even lacking his Armani armor, Bruce chose hope.

“I’m coming back in ten minutes,” Bruce warned, selectively ignoring years’ worth of Dick’s childhood which reminded him that exact phrase had never worked.

Cautiously, Bruce exited the master suite and crept up the stairs to the childrens’ bedrooms. A lesser man would have resented feeling attacked in his own home. Bruce was not a lesser man. He knew, _intimately,_ what havoc his pint-sized terrors could wreck on Gotham at large, let alone Wayne Manor.

Dread shivered its way down Bruce’s spine as he surveyed the damage—or, rather, lack of damage. Dick’s room—empty, naturally, and untouched. Damian, Cass, Tim—also; Damian’s room was in soldierly, Spartan precision while Cass and Tim’s room had been forced into a level of organization and cleanliness that was, quite frankly, unnatural for either of them. And that included the dirty laundry attempting to crawl out from underneath the bed. 

The guest room that Steph used was sans-life forms as well. 

A stupider, _slower_ man would look at this assessment and see success. _Victory._ Bruce saw only defeat.

Bruce steeled his nerves—and girded his loins, as well. He had enough children, he reasoned—before he turned to go back down stairs.

Ghosting along the hallway to the den, every single step was echoed by the laughter of children—and not _any_ children, _his_ children, the most awesome children in the word. In the very awe-inspiring sense. Awe, as in terror.

The moment Bruce stepped over the threshold, four necks snapped around to meet his gaze with wide eyes. Bruce, however, had no eyes for his three children and fourth, sort-of-estranged maybe-daughter, maybe-niece or something. 

Instead, he gazed around what was left of the den. 

Every piece of furniture had been turned over; a bookcase tilting drunkenly through an open window, half-collapsing curtains on top of it. The flatscreen was crooked and had hairline fractures running through it, making the CNN reporters on screen gaze at Bruce with an expression he typically associated with ‘Nam vets. The stuffing of what once had been couches merrily littered the room like the local mall’s Santa Grotto, completely covering a several thousand-dollar rug that had either blood or grape juice stains. 

And his children?

Tim’s head peaked out of a small fortress of video games and dvd cases he had built around himself and, judging by the glowing lights, that goddamned PS4 that Tim had convinced Bruce to buy. Cass was in the other corner, face red in anger and possibly lack of blood flow, as she had been trussed up with the cords from several different gaming systems. Damian sat in the center of the mess, calm, cross-legged, stroking Alfred (the cat) on his lap and leaning against Titus, with an inexplicably full glass of what could very well be merlot. 

Steph was perched above them all, the only one of them actually dressed in something resembling formal wear (even if it did include high tops with mismatched laces), draped across the sad skeleton of a chaise lounge and gazing upon his misguided offspring with undeniable, and truly understandable, superiority. 

“None of this,” Damian announced from the center of an apocalyptic-level mess, dangling his glass from fingertips in one hand and a bottle of something in the other, “is my fault.”

For once, words escaped Bruce. Not from sheer social ineptness or purposely annoying Hal Jor—irritating, unmentionable colleagues. No, truly, Bruce was completely speechless.

“How,” Bruce managed before he had to raise a hand to his mouth to stifle either a scream or a sob. _I am not weak,_ he told himself, _I can parent my own children,_ before realizing the folly of that statement.

“Oh!” Tim popped his head out of his small, wobbly citadel. “Yeah, I can explain. It’s all Damian’s fault.”

Cassandra hissed like a feral cat and struggled against her bindings. 

Damian, for once, displayed a remarkable sense of calm as he knocked back his wine—no, Bruce could read the label now—Mango Cranberry Grape Juice Fruit-O Blast like a shot. 

Damian cleared his throat. “Drake lies, Father, just as he lies about being able to complete simple tasks.”

“I do _not_ —”

“Were you or were you not the one who put the PS4 through the window?” demanded Damian, before he turned his attention back to Bruce, who tried mightily not to quiver under the demand of having to interact with, let alone _raise_ , these four hellions. “Drake sucked up his nonexistent pride to ask Grayson how to put together a PS4 but Grayson was already in a bath—" 

Bruce's eye twitched. Oh, so Dick had _foreseen_ this, had he? Or maybe just heard the battle cries of Damian and Tim waging their ever-lasting war, the likes of which was only seen on the epic scales of the Titanomachy or Ragnarök or Doomsday and safely bunkered down. 

That _lucky bastard_ —

"—so _I_ came, as a dutiful brother, (to Grayson, _not_ to Drake), which is when Drake declared he could do it himself which was _clearly_ false, so I attempted to help him. Drake decided the problem could only be solved by throwing the PS4 out the window.”

Tim opened his mouth and Bruce raised a hand, wearily. “Did you or did you not throw the PS4 out the window?”

Tim slunk back down into his game cartridge fortress, defeated. “ _Yes_.”

Bruce debated on whether or not he wanted to follow the PS4’s clearly rational decision and autodefenestrate. 

“And so what is that, in there?”

Tim curled around _it_ and hissed like a protective mother boa constrictor. 

Steph volunteered. “Tim called me and gave me his credit card to go buy a new one, so I did, and then when I came back Cass was lurking around here, like a creep, so she tripped over the new PS4 and accidentally kicked Damian’s juice on it.”

Bruce picked up Damian’s juice.

“So then I asked Steph to go out and get another one, or a couple, just in case, so she bought out all the PS4s and Xboxes, too, ‘cause she thought it would be funny or _something—_ ”

“I was going to—”

Bruce downed the whole thing in one go, facial muscles contorted at the taste, and Damian’s glare. 

“After we tied Cassandra down with the extra cords,” interrupted Damian, arms crossed and huffy.

Bruce felt like his brain was slowly dripping onto the floor like Damian’s Mango Cranberry Grape Juice Fruit-O Blast. 

“Why?” he asked, surely not as weakly as he felt. The sharkish grin Steph gave him said otherwise.

Damian’s glare crystalized into something dangerously mournful. 

“She knows what she did,” he said with the embittered air of a French soldier who had seen first-hand the follies of Napoleon's Russian Campaign, right down to eating horses in a Moscow winter, but had gone on to find out he was immortal and serve in every Western European military expedition, up to and including Switzerland's accidental invasion of Liechtenstein in '08. 2008, that is.

Bruce chose to ignore his youngest’s existential despair for the moment. Surely there were therapists for that kind of thing. Or Dick, really, because otherwise Bruce would end up spending his entire fortune on therapy. Dick was much cheaper, or would be, if Bruce could ever pry him away from his bubble bath, which was looking less and less likely with every passing moment.

“And how did—” he gestured at large to the wide-spread destruction, or maybe just the world at large.

Tim and Damian started sharing shifty looks that made Bruce’s heart spasm with horror.

“No,” he announced, more than a tad hysterically. “No, no, no. I won’t. I won’t hear any more of this—disaster, or any of you walking natural disasters. Untie your sister, get rid of these couches, and somebody sweep up the floor.” 

Bruce screwed up the last bit of his courage, the one that had wept silently and crawled under a rock days ago when he had bought that stupid PS4.

" _I_ will set up the PS4."

Silence met his pronouncement. All except for Stephanie, who cackled like the cock that had crowed three times for Saint Peter. 

"Father," said Damian tremulously, gravely, no doubt remembering the iPhone Debacle of '15 and Bruce's penchant for not reading instructions. " _Don't."_

"Yeah, anyway," said Stephanie with a toothy grin Bruce could hear. He refused to look at her. He did. If he did, it would be something of the likes of Medusa and her Gorgons, the ungodly smile turning him to stone. "We already called someone who can."

"Are any of you brats home?" called another voice from the hallway.

Bruce's stomach dropped.

"Oh — Jesus. What the _hell_ were all you doing —?"

Bruce turned to face the doorway, gazing upon the visage of his beautiful second-born with pure adoration and absolute relief.

"Jason," he said reverently as Jason swore, loudly, and turned to run — only to trip over an evilly grinning Damian, who had snapped the door shut.

Jason glared at Damian in undiluted loathing, who basked in the hate like a tiny, malevolence-fueled snake.

"Brother," he said silkily with a tone usually reserved for clandestine mob boss gatherings. It fit Damian a little too well, truth be told, but Bruce would deal with that later. Or Dick. Dick would deal with it.

"Son of Satan," greeted Jason with a tone usually reserved for Catholic priests at exorcisms in horror movies. 

"Jason," repeated Bruce, faintly. Jason gave him a half-second glance before sprinting for the window, only to be stopped by Stephanie's well-aimed bottle of Mango Cranberry Grape Juice Fruit-O Blast to the head.

Jason went down like a sack of bricks inches from freedom, which gave Damian and Tim time to sprint into action and tether him to the door with extra cords. Cassandra gave her brother a woeful, commiserating look from across the room.

"Thank you so much for helping us set up the PS4, Jay," said Bruce, delighted. 

Jason glared at him. "It's not like I have a _choice._ "

"You always have a choice, Jay," Bruce said guilelessly. He briefly considered the ramifications of his children holding their siblings hostage, but dismissed it. Dick was holding his bathroom hostage, after all. 

Any thought that might have included the fruitlessness of such moral equivalence between his children and an ensuite bathroom was summarily ignored. 

"So," Bruce announced, clapping his hands together as hope tentatively peaked its head up like a rabbit rising from hibernation on the first days of spring. "Clean up this place, help Jason set up the PS4, and then get dressed. And then, God help you all, you will enjoy the Fifth Justice League Anniversary."

"Uh, it's been more than five years," pointed out Tim, "actually, I think it's been like _twenty_ — "

Bruce ignored him. What did Tim know about basic math, anyway? He eyed his watch and strangled a bit of a scream. Thirty minutes until the party started.

"Actually," Bruce overrode him, gears whirring in his superbly clever mind. Oh, yes. Oh, yes, this would work. "You're all going to get dressed, first, and _then_ come up here and clean this up. Jason, you can stay and fix the PS4 and Stephanie can help pick up."

"Don't tell me what to do," Jason said immediately. _Predictably_. Bruce hid a maniacal cackle. Why weren't more his Rogues driven crazy by their own children, again? "I'm going to get dressed, too, if Roy and Kori and the rest of the Titans are coming."

"You can borrow some of my clothes," said Bruce, before barking, "Come on!"

Their little troop of what could quite accurately be mistaken as parademons marched down the hallway and stopped at Bruce's suite, who directed the rest up stairs and gestured to Jason to pick something out of the walk-in closet.

"Dick," Bruce called, knocking on the door, a little frantic now. That was _definitely_ Cannibal Corpses. "Get out, or I'm coming in there myself."

There was a long, undeniably sulky silence before Dick cracked the door open. One blue eye and pile of soap suds glared at him through the crack. 

"I was having a _bath_."

"You were _hiding,"_ Bruce retorted, infinitely betrayed. "What happened to Batman and Robin?"

Dick straightened up and pushed the door open, revealing a mullet crafted of bath bubbles perched upon his head that made Bruce reflexively choke down bile. Dick took a long, noisy sip of his overly large glass of what was _actually_ merlot.

"I was Batman, too," he said almost indifferently, if one such as Bruce couldn't see the way Dick's eyes warily searched out for any missing Robins. "And how did my Robins betray _me_?"

The two stood there, locked in immortal combat before Jason suddenly shouted.

"Oh, _shit!_ Does this mean Donna and Diana will be there?"

"Yes," said Bruce, not taking his eyes off of Dick.

And that was all it took for Jason to barrel into the unsuspected Dick, who sacrificed guarding his bath to instead juggle his wine, and the door slammed shut.

"Sorry, Dickface!" The sound of Cannibal Corpses finally being shut off was a choir of angels to Bruce's ears. "I need a bath more than you."

"Victory," hissed Bruce underneath his breath. 

Dick, towel slipping down and wine half over his chest, bubble mullet slowly deflating, and no way to get to the fire engine red Adidas tracksuit-turned-actual suit locked in the bathroom, gazed at Bruce and his utter perfidy.

" _How?"_ Dick demanded.

"I'm Batman," said Bruce with a straight face. "Now get dressed."

"But my suit was in there!"

"So was mine," said Bruce, unmoved. "Shame."

Secretly, of course, Bruce was planning on fishing Dick's ungodly abomination called a suit and setting it on fire after the party. 

Dick narrowed his eyes, bubbles dropping slowly in them.

"This was _revenge_ ," he accused. 

Bruce lifted his chin and stood tall. "This was _justice._ "

Dick threw daggers from his eyes with all the accuracy of someone taught to swallow swords at age six. Namely, someone who didn't know where the pointy end went. "I'm _watching_ you."

Bruce refused to back down as Dick stalked out of the room like a predator searching for his next meal. Or, more like, another outfit that was some heinous combination of red and puce.

Bruce sighed in slight relief, but did not let the false air of peace move him. No, he quickly swept into his suit for the night with all the speed of sweeping into his _other_ suit for the _other_ night and out into the foyer with three minutes to spare.

Damian, Tim, Cass, and Steph all stood there dressed perfectly nicely and looking calm and socially acceptable. 

Bruce's eyes narrowed, heart rate jumping up again.

"Don't worry, boss," said Steph, examining her nails like any good mob enforcer, "it's all covered."

"What — "

Bruce was interrupted with the sound of death. Bell chimes, telephone rings, the cheerful tinkle of his doorbell — all the same. Death.

Bruce warily opened the door.

"Clark," he greeted stiffly.

Clark laughed at him as Lois gave him a hug. "How are you, Bruce? Diana's behind me, but Arthur said he'd be a little late — Tim, Damian! Cassandra — Stephanie? Good to see you! Damian, Jon's here, too. Jon and Kon helped bake a couple apple pies with Ma, too many, probably, they were just having the time of lives –– say hi, Jon!"

Clark nudged for Jon, who was peaked up at Bruce with wide, wary eyes underneath his baseball cap and glasses, quickly making a beeline for Damian. Clark laughed sheepishly. "Sorry he didn't say hi. He's really excited to see Damian!"

Bruce glowered at Clark in sheer jealousy. The day where his only parenting problem were too many apple pies and a forgotten hello were pipedreams in this Manor that housed the denizens of hell.

Steph, however, sashayed right up to Clark.

"If it isn't Mr. Man," she said with her frightful grin. "Welcome to Kappa Wayne for the night! Sorry, Chez Wayne," Steph added, catching sight of Alfred's scandalized look as he took Jon's coat. "We have got it going _on!_ Please go on through the foyer into the dining room to enjoy our bonfire."

"Bonfire?" Bruce hissed as Clark turned to greet Dick, who vaulted down the stairs wearing a teal sports jacket so ungodly bright it made Bruce's eyes water.

"I told you," said Steph, exasperated, "I _got_ it."

Bruce abruptly wondered if this is what it felt like to have a literal demon on your shoulder. The thought occurred to him just as Damian tugged at his left hand.

"May we retire to the dining room, Father?" he asked politely. He heard Jon ask Damian where the PS4 was and steeled himself against reflexive violence. Or tears.

"Yes," said Bruce, distractedly, as Jason slunk into the foyer, hair combed back and wearing a bowtie like he used to do when he was twelve. "Is everything set up there, Alfred?"

As such, Bruce missed Alfred's full-bodied twitch. "Yes, Master Bruce."

When Bruce got to the dining room, however, he saw why. The table, originally laid with delectable hors d'oeuvres and summery flower arrangements, was now playing host to Christmas decorations. A model of the Polar Express cheerfully whistled Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer as it chugged its way through mounds of fake snow that looked suspiciously like couch stuffings.

Not only that, but while the mantle of the fireplace in the back of the dining room was hung with stockings and fresh evergreens––that, honestly, Bruce wasn't even going to ask about––there was a fire going. One with very, very oddly shaped timber. Timber that had definitely once been couches.

"Uh," said Clark. "Bruce? It's mid-July."

Bruce, then, faced what could probably be described as the greatest dilemma of his known life. Did he tell Clark that he had spent the last two hours alternating between herding human-shaped cats he called children and having minor bouts of existential despair? Or, did he —

It was than he heard the voices from the foyer. Not just Diana, no. Oliver Queen and Hal Jordon's dulcet tones reverberated through the sounds of his home.

The decision was abruptly made for him.

"It's Christmas in my heart, Clark," said Bruce blandly. He turned back around where Alfred ushering all the other guests inside. Damian and Tim were arguing loudly over the merits of which Superboy was better and were toeing the edge of violence while Cassandra and Stephanie and Kara giggled over something that would definitely involve property damage. 

Dick clambered on Diana's shoulders, somehow having acquired actual mohawk that made Bruce cringe; Jason laughed truly with Diana, one arm around Roy Harper and the other around Donna Troy. 

"That's why all my family's here."

"That's a couch that's burning, Bruce," Clark pointed out.

"I told you, Clark." Bruce picked up the nearest wine glass and took a deep swig of it, only to cough out Mango Cranberry Grape Juice Fruit-O Blast. "It's _definitely_ my family."


End file.
